


all i want is nothing more

by teddyybears



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, Secret Santa, but i genuinely like this so i figured maybe y'all would appreciate it, the intended recipient ghosted the exchange lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:53:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21737887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teddyybears/pseuds/teddyybears
Summary: It’s a terrifying feeling, to lose herself so hard and so fast, from a stranger to an infatuation in the span of weeks. All too easy to lust after someone, to match flushed cheeks to how she looks in the river as they bathe, a quickened heartbeat to the curl of her smile. Another thing entirely to look at her and think,I crave the way she laughs, the dedication to all she holds dear, the little pranks she plays. Luciel’s head shakes slightly as if this will brush away her thoughts, hair falling dark and loose around her face, but it’s Morrigan’s voice - of course it is, she thinks, a little rueful - that brings her back. “Come,” says she, and Luciel would follow her anywhere, “the city beckons.”Luciel has always wanted what she can’t have.
Relationships: Morrigan/Female Warden
Comments: 5
Kudos: 53





	all i want is nothing more

**On wanting—**

"Now there’s a sensible request,” says the witch, and the smirk playing across her lips should not please Luciel so. Alistair – though it pains her to admit, fool that he is – isn’t wrong. What good can come of trusting a Witch of the Wilds? (A human, nonetheless. Just when, Luciel wonders, had she become so weak? Everything the shemlen have done to her, to her people, and all her forgiveness asks is a pretty smile. Ridiculous.) Luciel is a child no longer, and she has never been a fool. She knows the rumors, the way of these things. For all her placating words, there is no telling what plans this Morrigan has.

Humans, she knows, always have plans. Mother and Father have warned her, time and time again, to be careful. She is in unfamiliar territory here, more so than just these Wilds, and she must watch her step. But all the same, Luciel’s eyes trace the harsh slope of the witch’s jaw, the startlingly soft curve of her mouth. There is something like want burning in the pit of her stomach, the flames flickering brighter at every meeting of their eyes. “I like you,” Morrigan adds, surprise in the words. Luciel turns pink.

* * *

**On longing—**

She wakes in a little cabin, not so unlike the one she grew up in, with Morrigan a mere foot away. For a moment, all she can do is stare. The witch putters about the cottage, the smooth planes of her back to Luciel, and has there ever been a lovelier sight? _Oh_ , she thinks, _this must be a dream_. Something curls in the pit of her stomach, caught between embarrassment and longing, and perhaps it’s all right if the darkspawn have torn her to shreds if it means she’s ended up here.

“Ah,” says Morrigan, at long last, “Your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased.” She says nothing of her own pleasure, but Luciel cannot help but wonder. Is the witch glad to see her? She realizes, distantly, that she shouldn’t be thinking of such silly things. There are far more important things at hand. And yet, she can’t seem to help herself. Her attention has been caught.

“I remember you,” Luciel says, soft in a way she so rarely is, “the girl from the wilds.” The one that has haunted her so.

A nod. “I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten,” she replies, and Luciel can only frown, befuddled. Forgotten? Impossible. Since their first parting, she has thought of little else besides. She almost puts voice to that thought, the words heavy on the tip of her tongue; but the world has started to clear around the edges, and she is beginning to doubt this is a dream.

“I hadn’t,” she says, simply. Morrigan smiles.

* * *

**On hoping—**

“Now,” says the old woman. Flemeth, if she is to be believed. Luciel has yet to make up her mind. Little use for shemlen tales in the alienage, but even she has heard the whispers. Witch of the Wilds, Daveth had called her. The memory sends a shudder down her spine. “Before you go— there is yet one more thing I can offer you.” Luciel’s lips part in protest, but the words catch between her teeth. Perhaps she doesn’t trust this strange human – trusts her magic even less – but a horde of darkspawn sits between her and freedom. She cannot afford to turn down the offer. Flemeth smiles at her, almost _smug_ , and Luciel fights the urge to grit her teeth.

“The stew is bubbling, mother dear,” interrupts Morrigan, approaching them. “Shall we have two guests for the eve, or none?” Is she so eager to see them off? The thought chafes. Tucked away in that little cabin, it had been so easy to think — to hope — that some sort of connection was forming between them. A tenuous thing, to be sure, the most delicate of threads. But something tangible, all the same.

“The Grey Wardens will be leaving shortly, girl. And you will be joining them.”

“Such a shame— what?” says Morrigan. _What?,_ thinks Luciel. Her heart does a flip. It’s embarrassing — infuriating — to realize, but she hadn’t been prepared to say goodbye. Who has she become, to be so easily affected by a girl she’s only just met? She does not recognize this strange creature who turns pink at the slightest glance, who wants nothing more than to take Morrigan’s hand in her own. _Come with us_ , she wants to say, _I’ve only just found you_. 

Mother and daughter bicker, tradings barbs and pleas, until at last Morrigan acquiesces. And perhaps Luciel shouldn’t be so pleased by this, knowing the girl does not wish to come, but… well, she’s never claimed to be anything but selfish, has she? Alistair gives her a befuddled glance when she grins, but she pays him no mind. She’s much too pleased to care. 

At last Flemeth turns to them, and there’s a suddenly serious look in her eyes that takes Luciel by surprise. “And you, wardens,” says the witch, and the words are almost a command, “I give you that which I value above all in this world.”

Luciel speaks to Flemeth, but it’s Morrigan’s eyes that she meets. “She won’t come to harm with us.”

* * *

**On craving—**

Mere weeks have passed since the battle at Ostagar, but to Luciel it feels like so much longer. In part, because of the struggle that is each and every hour — the hot sun beating down on their backs, the cramped tents, the little quips Alistair cannot stop himself from making. Yet it’s also Morrigan who makes the weeks seem like years. It seems a cruel thought, but Luciel does not mean it in that way. No– Morrigan is all that makes the days bearable. The stories she tells, the shape of her smile. In the evenings, Luciel lays on the sun-dry grass, listening to the sound of the witch’s voice, and it’s as familiar to her as her own. It’s as though she’s known her all her life, like they played together as babes. She ought to be bored of it by now. Somehow, she isn’t.

It’s a terrifying feeling, to lose herself so hard and so fast, from a stranger to an infatuation in the span of weeks. All too easy to lust after someone, to match flushed cheeks to how she looks in the river as they bathe, a quickened heartbeat to the curl of her smile. Another thing entirely to look at her and think, _I crave the way she laughs, the dedication to all she holds dear, the little pranks she plays_. Luciel’s head shakes slightly as if this will brush away her thoughts, hair falling dark and loose around her face, but it’s Morrigan’s voice - of course it is, she thinks, a little rueful - that brings her back. “Come,” says she, and Luciel would follow her anywhere, “the city beckons.”

* * *

**On coveting—**

There’s a frown on Morrigan’s face, arms crossed over her chest, and Luciel aches to see such an expression pointed at her. She’d simply asked a question! She hadn’t thought it would do any harm. All that she wants, really, is to be in Morrigan’s good books. It seems such a simple thing. Yet, the witch seems cross. “Let us assume that this imaginary good side exists, hmm?” she says, “What exactly would be the benefit for you to get on it?”

Luciel answers, uncharacteristically honest, “I'll settle for a smile, actually.” She’s kept track of every single grin she’s earned, and tucks them close to her chest. Fifteen, sixteen, and yet it’s not enough. Her gaze forever drifts to the harsh line of Morrigan’s mouth, waiting for the moments where it softens into delight. Foolish, she thinks, and wishes she could bring herself to anger.

“Do I not smile enough to suit you?” Morrigan questions, “How negligent!” The words are laced with something sardonic, and Luciel shifts uncomfortably on her feet. She has half a mind to apologize and change the subject entirely, but Morrigan barrels on before she can. “I would expect favor to come with a price. Perhaps you would be willing to pay me a compliment?”

Is that all? That’s the easiest thing in the world. “I think you’re brilliant and amazing,” she says, and though she tries to keep her voice flippant, sincerity shines through. Morrigan is her dearest friend, her greatest joy in these dark days, more than she could ever have dreamed.

Morrigan laughs, and there’s the smile Luciel has so coveted. “I suppose stating the obvious will have to do.”

* * *

**On wishing—**

The moon sits high above their heads, painting Morrigan’s face with a faintly silver glow. She looks different in this light, ethereal in a way Luciel could never hope to touch. The world has gone to sleep around them, even the crickets quiet now, and Luciel wishes it could always be this way. Just the two of them. She shifts closer, near enough that she could reach out and touch, and were she a little braver she might have done just that. Instead, she speaks. “Was it lonely, growing up in the wilds?” She’s heard snippets of Morrigan’s childhood, has wheedled a story or two from the other, but she’s always been a greedy sort. It’s not enough. She doesn’t think it ever could be.

Morrigan sighs, but there’s a smile playing at the edges of her mouth. “Question after question,” she remarks, and turns to face Luciel, “A world full of people was all very foreign to me. If I wished companionship, I ran with the wolves and flew with the birds. if I spoke, ‘twas to the trees.” She goes on, drifting into a tale of a noblewoman and a mirror, and how Flemeth had dashed her pretty bauble on the rocks. Luciel stays silent, lest she break the spell. Perhaps, she muses, she could pick up a mirror on their next trip to town. They have little coin to spare, but if it would make Morrigan happy, surely she can stretch what they have. She smiles to herself, perfectly content. And then— “Flemeth was right to break me of my fascination. Beauty and love are fleeting, and have no meaning.”

Luciel goes still. She can’t have heard right. She straightens from the slouch she had fallen into, eyes snapping open. “Do you truly believe that?” she demands, and can hear the shock in her voice, “that love has no meaning?” Perhaps once she would have thought the same, decried silly things like infatuation. She’s never needed anyone but herself, after all. But... that had been before she’d met Morrigan.

Morrigan stares at her, clearly startled, but nods. “Survival has meaning,” she replies, and her voice is a steady contrast to Luciel’s suddenly shaky breath, “Power has meaning.”

Luciel can meet her eyes no longer, nervously pulling on strands of grass. Something in her chest has cracked, leaving a fissure that she does not know will ever be repaired. “I suppose it made you stronger,” she says, and her voice is dull. “Good night, Morrigan.”


End file.
